Afghanistan or Iraq?
by b4dw0lfgirl
Summary: When John Watson's therapist recommends him to go to group therapy to help him with his PTSD, John doesn't want to. This changes, however, when he sees the dashing Sherlock Holmes.


**Note: This story is meant to offend no one. I have never seen nor met anyone with the disorders in this story (but they aren't really incorporated). The views expressed are of the characters, not me, and aren't meant to be offensive. I do go to therapy, though I have never been to group therapy (I am going for the first time very soon though). Sorry if this is inaccurate or offensive in any way.**

Group therapy. John Watson had never thought he was ever going to have to go to it, but when his PTSD from war had become extremely bad, John's physiatrist suggested it.

"John," she had said, just over a week ago, "you're getting worse."

At this point John looked at the ground, not meeting her eyes. "Yeah. I'm getting more and more dreams about the war, I'm not eating, I'm not sleeping…" his voice trail off as he risked a glance at her face. She looked genuinely worried, judging by how large her eyes had gotten, and the crinkle between her eyebrows.

"So, I'm going to recommend group psychotherapy."

This had gotten John's attention. "What?" he asked, surprised, a little bit too loud. "Why?"

"Listen," she tried to coax him, "this treatment has done wonders for so many people with similar conditions. You'll be surprised at how good it feels to meet people going through the same thing as you.

After several more minutes of persuasion and protests, John reluctantly agreed to try it out.

So, here he was, nine days later, standing outside a different skyscraper in London. The drizzling rain seemed to fit perfectly with the ominous feeling he had about this session.

It wasn't so much the actual therapy he was dreading, so much as the principle. Group therapy was for completely insane mental patients, or drug addicts, and he didn't want to think he had sunk so low as to become one of those people.

But John took a deep breath and pushed open the glass doors to reveal a somewhat nice lobby area. But he didn't have much time to admire the decorations, as he walked straight to the elevator, hoping he wasn't late.

When John arrived at the 14th floor, he was surprised at how nice it was. He had expected something more dark and a little grimy, like something held in a church basement, the type of things you find in the movies; but John found himself in a brightly lit room with lots of light, neutral colors.

In the far left corner John spotted a small circle of people, dotted with empty chairs.

"I hope I'm not late," John apologized as he sat in one of the open chairs.

"Not at all; we were just about to start," a person who John assumed was the group leader said.

John simply gave a curt nod and sat in the closest empty chair.

"How about we introduce ourselves for the new attendee?" the leader asked the group, getting only a few mumbles as a response. "Okay! My name is Dr. Lestrade, and I lead this group," Lestrade had enthusiasm in his voice, but John observed in his eyes that he was really tired and annoyed.

"Jim Moriarty. Psychopath," said the man to Lestrade's left, giving a wicked grin. His wide eyes locked with John's, making him feel uncomfortable, and shiver involuntarily.

John cleared his throat softly to get prepared to speak, as it was his turn next. "I'm John Watson and I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," John was proud of himself for only letting his voice waver slightly. He glanced around the circle quickly, taking in the nodding heads and interesting mix of disinterested and over interested expressions.

"Philip Anderson…" the person to the left of John started, but he zoned out before this Anderson was even finished introducing himself. Mostly, John just thought about what else he could be doing with this precious hour, like working on his practically nonexistent blog, or getting in touch with his sister again, or…anything other than this, really.

However, a sharp voice snapped John out of his semi-conscious haze. His eyes snapped up to meet with bright blue ones staring at him from across the haphazardous circle of chairs. The man seemed to be arguing with Lestrade, judging by the way he quickly broke eye contact and complained like a young child: "Do I _have_ to?"

"Yes, now introduce yourself," Lestrade quickly snapped back, his little patience obviously gone for the moment.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," just then, John and Sherlock made eye contact again, and John had his breath taken away by the intensity of his stare. His ice-blue eyes softened to a more green color the longer they sat in silence.

"And he's a psychopath," Lestrade interrupted after a few moments, clearly annoyed with the halt in his schedule.

"High functioning sociopath," Sherlock snapped at him, his eyes reverting to blue as he looked away from John, again. "Do your research."

John, however, couldn't look away from the stranger's face, as hard as he tried. He studied the mysterious Sherlock Holmes's curly black hair and prominent cheekbones. John stared at the way his eyebrows creased slightly, and raised his eyebrows at how nicely his purple button-down fit his body.

John knew he was blatantly checking Sherlock out, but didn't really care. John was also aware, in the back of his mind, that he already had a girlfriend, one he was even planning on proposing to. He had thought that was love, and maybe it was, but what he felt towards Mary after two years of knowing her wasn't nearly as strong as what he felt towards Sherlock after only two minutes of knowing him.

…

After that, the rest of therapy went by considerably quickly, but that might have been John's distorted concept of time he had, while staring at Sherlock. In what seemed like no time, the meeting was over, and John only noticed because Sherlock had moved to get up.

John quickly scrambled to his feet, determined to catch Sherlock before he left, not wanting to wait for next week. He had to jog a little to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, something John assumed came with the height gene.

"Hey," John called out when he finally reached Sherlock, matching his pace.

"What?" Sherlock said coldly, not even glancing in John's direction.

"I'm John."

"Not interested."

"I doubt that, judging by the way you were looking at me earlier," John pried, not put-off enough to give up.

This caused Sherlock to stop, and slowly turn to face John. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?"

"You said you have PTSD. The most common cause of it is war. Your clothes and this therapy are too expensive for just having got out of a war, with just a pension. The only wars Britain has been involved in in this time frame take place in Afghanistan and Iraq. Which one was it? In Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," John breathed out, amazed by what Sherlock just did.

John furrowed his eyebrows when he saw Sherlock pull out a slip of paper and pen. "I assume you want my number?" Sherlock clarified when he saw John's confused expression.

"Uh, yes please," John said, taken aback, but in a good way.

Sherlock looked John in the eye as he handed him the small slip. "I'm not a nice man. Knowing me could be dangerous."

John only smiled as Sherlock spun around and turned up his coat collar in one move, his first genuine smile in a long, long time.

**I think this is going to stay a oneshot, but if I ever get the inspiration I may continue this (the same applies to the rest of my stories), but don't hold your breath, because it won't be any time soon. Thanks for reading!**


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